Through the Trapdoor
by KniteStars
Summary: Living under the shameful shadows of their fathers, Rima and Shiki, reiterate the meaning of forgiveness as they divulge their acquaintanceship.


Disclaimer: Touya Rima and Shiki Senri aren't mine. If they were . . . anyways we won't linger.

A/N: This story will be written entirely as a first person PoV narration, but with interchangeable narrators. When I write as Rima, my language will inevitably be purple, pompous, arrogant and overly complicated due to her bitter childhood. However Shiki was imagined as more introverted, respectfully quiet, and fearful.

**Rima's PoV**

Children were expected to be quiet. There would be no speaking, unless spoken to. No flinching or committing any other unnecessary movements. Children were: how to put it, accessories. Prized by their beauty or intelligence, they very rarely are used for things of importance.

As a child, there was an excess of pressure built over these poor creatures. Already judged by my bloodline, I was sure to draw attention by my fiery hair and cerulean eyes. Always expected to dress to the utmost precision, there were no times for lollygagging, or as what children supposedly need: love.

Etched in my fate, due my blood; already, apprehension boils over at the announcement of my birth, and even more so, after my public showing. My father, a man with a revolting physique, a rotten, cold personality. This man, who shall be referred to as 'the man', was the person of the deepest, most authentic loathing I had ever felt. But his compulsory presence in my life made me sick. His voice alone was nauseating. The way he would try to make it sound silky when he murmured his words in attempt to sway me when I had reached an older age. At my birth, with only a bitter congratulation to my mother, he stole me out of the nursery still in my bundle and proudly carried me around the ball room. If my thoughts had been anything to go by, he had already picked out my fiancée by this point; the one who would bring this family to most power and honor. After one rotation of the large ball room, he withdrew to the shadows and tossed me to a wet nurse. I was valued only for my future; oh the childhood of mine remained dull.

"Tatsuya-san," my mother beckoned my brother, the elder beauty. The tall glistening woman wrapped her pale slender arms around the shoulders of the man. Before turning abruptly and gliding away. My mother deserved more respect, and shall be addressed as much, for it had nothing of her choice to be betrothed to such a selfish and horrible man. Mother would be here one day and gone the next, her choice of work carried her widely for the most interesting of advances. As a model, the woman, my mother, possessed no time for gracing neither my elder brother nor I with adoration.

At the crack of dawn each morning, the house would be abuzz; the Man would be gone at the council, a strange government I had neither patience nor curiosity for. As younger children, my Onii and I had already settled a point. The judgment we had on our father was neither too cruel nor too light, in fact, the conviction we both carried of the Man impacted our future careers.

Originally, my father had Onii carry out the future of this family as a justice in the Vampire Council. After seeing the berating way our mother was treated, we both decided to specialize in a specific way of other training, one to bring this family honor, and yet to travel in a path unlingering in the shadow of our father's power. Hunters. Although this occupation holds little in our time, it provides great amusement as level E vampires struggle to fulfill their last sip of thirst before crumbling to dust in our cold hands.

But of course, this is much too in the future. Who am I? I am often asked by vampires for the thoughts of being the daughter of one of the most powerful men of the Council. In addition, by mortal humans for the thoughts of being the daughter of one of the most green members of the fashion and modeling segment. There are no thoughts really. Parents are ones cannot be chosen. As for the name, Touya Rima, it does nothing to define my age, or my identity. I should see no reason why you should be curious of this fact either. The only things that matter are the things we achieve, and in the future you shall know me as something more than a little innocent girl overshadowed by her family.

* * *

Although pampered by the many servants roaming the large estate, my childhood remained quite unintentionally unspoiled. The Man had always told me the people with the highest power could demand the unthinkable from the lower, but I don't quite believe in that allegation. Of course, I had the life every girl dreams of, hell, any princess dreams of. No lessons, abundance of food, toys, knowledge at my fingertips. And yet, I was lonely, frightfully lonely. Servants, as paid, did not create good conversation; for they only spoke what they had paid to speak. But of course, watching them flounder at my advanced vocabulary had albeit been an amusing distraction.

As for my cruel and harsh sense of humor, the Man had always enjoyed an overuse of his power, and as a fast-growing toddler to watch her father use his power in order to gain the submission of his peers, must have been very influential for me.

I spent my afternoons reading. There simply was nothing else to accomplish. The house leaked rules everywhere, and with balls and guests at the estate nearly every night, I had to be presentable. Ayumi, undoubtly a favored maid of mine combed my hair.

"Rima-sama, your hair is so beautiful. The shade of a phoenix's wings at its rebirth," she breathed. Her way of combing was comfortable; she did not pull harshly at the tangled knots at the bottom of my hair, nor was her pressure too gentle or lulling, which causes me annoyance at the slow speed.

"Ayumi-san, thank you for your time," apparently that was all I had to say to quiet her mouth. Although favoured and much whose presence was much enjoyed by me, she had a very active mouth, and irritating doting tone. Ayumi, who had been handpicked by my grandmother from a level C family, had been very honored at this selection and immediately packed and arrived at this house before I had been born to become my wet-nurse. Although she appears to be a young 26 maiden, her age had far surpassed my grandparents and parents.

Her black hair and slanted eyes gave the traditional Japanese style look, and yet it was obvious of her birth in Europe, for her accent was unmistakable. The servant gracefully and efficiently helped me into a light blue dress. The shoulder's fell off limply to the side. The Man would yell later at the servants for not correctly measuring my height, and in return, damaging his reputation against the Purebloods and Council.

"Rima-san," my mother's soft voice called from the door, "Your father is waiting." Then after a moment's thought, "Impatiently." Of course, being a model, my mother is without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in the world. Her long smooth legs were encased in a red silky gown today, but her freshly curled chocolate hair tumbled down her back. My disgusting and dull orange hair came genetically from my father. A clear reminder of him when I think otherwise. It was kept long, because the Man thought it was appropriate. That's all.

And me? A small comparison to the acts my father has fulfilled and a grotesque form next to my mother's unearthly beauty. The steps of the grand hall were mercifully short; it was obvious if it had been any longer I would have made a great blunder causing both parents to hold great shame for me.

"The joyous news we bring, of our daughter's eighth birthday. We are filled with honor at your presence this delightful evening . . ." Quiet an eloquent speech from my father, making his ghastly shadow morph into something more worthwhile.

I waltzed around the ballroom, accepting congratulations and wishes for good health. Then I saw him. Someone like me. A puppet.

Puppets were beautiful in a boring and plain manner, held up to the light for the benefit of the holder. They were made out of harsh, rough material that itched and seemed unrealistic form. Puppets couldn't express emotion, remaining apathetic. Our eyes may widen, words may emerge from our mouths expressing amusement. However, these small actions are for from the cause of the wielder. Puppets couldn't control their bodies. Even from a smaller mold, a child, we were controlled, by a more large and daunting figure. Puppets sat still, all crumpled until someone picked them up. We were made to be unseen, and only speak when spoken too. We weren't made for entertainment or joy or love, we were causes for upheaval in power and justice.

It was just that. Short and concise. We were puppets, mere toys to be manipulated by others.

* * *

**Shiki's PoV**

When my father and mother conceived me, it caused a scandal. That is merely fact. People down the street or across the halls in the servant's quarters gossiped. **How** **could a pureblood . . .? Only an Aristocrat****_._** It was not the fact there was disrespect for Nobles of our status, it was only too well known Purebloods' status was superior.

I can't really describe my father. He never comes. Simple as that. Evidently he hasn't returned for a while. My mother, once a blooming model, now deals with her own helpless thoughts and a crumbling agency. In general, I have had no association with this so called 'family.' From birth, I was scorned, an **'unlawful birth' 'something not tolerated 'an abomination.' **Although of high aristocratic blood, I was never given such respect.

The man calls me "son" I was ordered to address him as "father," and yet, there is no relationship; no connection to this past and rule. Thoughts from my head circulate around his cruel laugh and bitter compliments. He finds amusement in both me and my mother as we struggle to win his approval. His approval should not be fought over, nevertheless we desire it. Perhaps the praises coming from the magical words of a pureblood play part in this argument, and yet perhaps it was the childish mindset, biting to experience "family" for the first time.

"Senri," my name was always spoken in a quiet and pale voice, not the least aggressive or demanding, yet in its own way, an order. As a model, mother never had time for me, bright and early she would head out the door, the cool air beckoned her away from his cold and lonely castle. This castle, although large and luxurious, held nothing of interest to me. My father, as a pureblood, often neglected his duties and was away from home, usually drinking at a bar, or running rowdy with his concubines.

I've been questioned and resented by purebloods, aristocrats and level vampires alike. Respect for the son of a pureblood. Insulted at being between levels. Even though, my fame of blood comes from my father, there has never been more of time where space had been needed. He had left. It was that simple. My mother remained broken and resolute from then on. As a dependant person, she had looked to her husband for orders and even abasement. Without her "master" her life was no more. She wouldn't continue living. Not even for me.

That's all. This is it. A childhood where an over-excited boy lived by his loving mother. Until a fated day where **it** happened. The first order my mother had rejected. The order of **removing** me. And so he had left, to find a more obedient wife, he claimed. She cracked then. Regret at losing her string of hope. Regret of living in the shadow of loneliness. And Hatred of me, the reason, the origin, the root, of her suffering.

Now, we relieve the memories of the painful future, and reminisce a more blissful opening. The morn was fast approaching. My mother, having just returned last night from her trip to a strange new country called Turkey, was ridiculously tired. (What conqueror in his right place of mind was name a grand country Turkey? Unbelievable.)

I've often been complimented as mature and well-grown; this is due to my father. For his status, anything was worth sacrificing, a beloved childhood included. I had been told I was a child, a mere stature not worth a double sight of. Just something used to gain popularity. Of course, that was not harsh, but something I had accepted early on as true.

A shriek of frustration could be heard on the upper level of the mansion. My mother, whose hair I had inherited, never managed to style it the correct way. After applying layers of spray and gel could she finally tame her mane of hair. Mahogany and layered, when she moved it rippled like freshly spilt blood. She had told me that's how she had first caught my father's eye. His greed had been his undoing.

She glided down the freshly polished banister with grace,

"Senri, Senri," She spun around her dress flaring around her. Even though I am male, by living with a model: I had memorized most of the fashion magazines and the specific adjectives describing the dresses. This outfit had been no different. It was an automatic evening gown worn from Rina Di Montella in 1528. The dress's off-the-shoulder neckline shown off the embellished detail at the center. The rutched fabric created a texture accenting my mother's smooth bodyline. In addition the navy dress wraps the waist with an A-line skirt and full length hem.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the coach.

"Senri, Harumi Touya is a beloved friend and worker of mine. Please treat her with respect, as you remember—"

I droned her out. I had often been given this explanation of friendship and hope, painting the woman as a savior. I had seen her face on the front page of magazines and her name spoken at every notch of the radio. By modeling along with this woman, my mother had gained undeserved attention from the news' cameras and model agencies.

The lights decorated the newly built estate broke my reverie. Hell, they sure don't believe in modesty. Although not even close to the size of our mansion, the warm lights and the streaming people descending from coaches and cars made the castle seem welcoming.

I followed my mother. Vampire Children played in the courtyard. With my maturity level, I scoffed; I did not believe I could play well with them.

Then I saw her. Someone like me. A doll. She had the pale porcelain skin, the color of sapphire in her wide baby doll-like eyes, pink rosebud lips and hair like gold gently hanging down. She never spoke. Her eyes although beautiful, were ice hard. She, like dolls, showed no emotions, simply a blank face with that passive stare and the tiny curve which hinted a smile. Dolls were gentle things that needed taking care of. And the girl up on the podium with her family was the epitome of selfishness and spoilt. She stood there looking pretty. Imaginatively just how she was set up. Dolls stayed still, didn't do anything.

Done. Period. Simple and Undiluted. We were dolls, mere toys to be stood and admired by others.


End file.
